


The Nazification of John Smith

by Daphne_Fredriksen



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Prisoner of War, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 16:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daphne_Fredriksen/pseuds/Daphne_Fredriksen
Summary: Background:  This is part of a larger story, John Smith’s Turn.  At the outset of this excerpt, he has been in Wisconsin on Reich business, and basically falls asleep on the plane and has this dream/flashback.  These are very slightly edited Chs. 29-33 from the larger work, which I definitely encourage you to read!





	1. Transport

The Oberstgruppenführer got on the plane alone and looked dully out the window. There were dark clouds to the west. The Upper Midwest had been plagued by lightning storms and prairie fires all year. But he was too tired to be very interested, so he leaned back, closing his eyes.

In a few minutes, he had a curious sensation. The supersonic was shuddering oddly, not smoothly at all. He opened his eyes…

Of course he was not on a plane (Where had he gotten that notion? Planes were for cargo and ordnance). This was the train, the officers’ special. Not that rank made a difference now. All the fighting would be hand-to-hand with knifes and pistols, maybe a rifle with a bayonet for the lucky ones, once they got to Virginia Beach. It was the Solomons, all over…

Names coursed through him – Richmond, Manassas, Wilderness, Appomattox. Other names, too – Washington, Henry, Jefferson, Madison. Yet more names – Williamsburg, Jamestown, Powhatan, Pocahontas.

_Johnny smiled at the last name. He was playing Cowboys & Indians with Edmund and had just learned in school about his namesake._

_“How, Paleface!” He waved a toy bow and arrow at his big brother. “I’m gonna marry Pocahontas an’ become an’ Injun Brave!”_

_“Bam-bam, you’re dead!” said Edmund. John dutifully fell over. Edmund came over and looked down at him. “You don’t wanna marry an Indian….” He reached out a hand to Johnny to pull him back up._

_“An Indian Princess!” Johnny corrected him. “Teacher says Pocahontas fell in love with John Smith ‘n’ saved his life! So I guess I gotta marry her…”_

_“Just wait ‘til yer older. Indian Princess marries someone else - you’ll see!”_

_He frowned. “She couldn’ve. She was in luuuve with him.”_

_“Ahhh, Johnny. Girls change their minds.” The boy was still pouting. “What doesn’t change is that I’m yer big brother, I know what’s what. And I’m always gonna look out for you. Know what else? I smell somethin’ from the kitchen. Momma’s baking…”_

_Johnny sniffed the air – there was a faint whiff of cinnamon and the butterscotchy smell of baked cookies. “Yeah! C’mon Eddie, race you to the house!” He got a head start; Edmund hung back, letting him win…_

John smiled sadly, remembering. He, Johnny, was always the Injun, the Black Hat. Edmund was always the Cowboy, the White Hat. Christopher Edmund, gone too soon…

Names and present reality forced themselves back on him, ending his reverie. Lafayette, Cornwallis, Chesapeake, Yorktown – he must remind his troops that Virginia had always been the forge of American history, the proving ground, and would be again. He would remind them that we had won our Independence here, and would reclaim it here.

The train stopped suddenly. Too soon into the itinerary. He and the other officers looked out the window, at a gray sea of Wehrmacht soldiers surrounding them. They were stopped in a bend in a deep valley, probably somewhere in the Appalachians. The enemy must’ve been hidden. The train would be impossible to see from scout towers; the Nazis could do anything they liked.

After the train was secured by the army, a black-clad SS unit burst in, armed and barking German. John got out his service pistol, but something hit him on the head and in the gut…


	2. Colonel Wegener

Things got confused for John… blurred. Sometimes he was being beaten, sometimes being questioned. If the latter, there was only one thing to say, “John Smith, Captain, serial number RS102967!” He didn’t even give them so much as a “sir!”

He heard men confessing, and he heard men purposely giving false information in the form of confessions. And he heard gunshots.

Above it all, he heard the radio. Damn thing was always on at some level. Sometimes it yapped out German, which was less than nonsense to John; sometimes treacly songs with an accordion or yodeling. Sometimes it was a sultry voice that might have been Marlene Dietrich, but wasn’t; Dietrich was a stalwart American patriot.

More often it was news, given in English, for the soldiers’ benefit. The alliance with Japan and the Emperor finally secured the defeat of Hawaii. (All that time in the Pacific –for naught!) The degenerate siren, Dietrich, refused to return to the _Vaterland_ and was shot for the traitor she was. And, the latest on the fight at Virginia Beach…

They were losing, John learned. Nothing was declared yet, but through the long hours, John could put together the pieces. We’ve lost our country, he thought, in the very places where it was born…

Torture and beatings had been administered all this time. But they were getting lighter. Some of the SS men here even stopped beatings-in-progress. One day one of them entered his cell.

“Stop this. This man has been beaten enough. No need to be so savage with him…”

Smith could barely lift his head, and he was bleeding from one eye, but he looked at the man as best as he could. From what he could tell, the man’s face was… decent.

“Colonel Wegener,” the soldier objected, “this man is intelligence. He had orders for Virginia Beach! We must get information.”

The SS officer took the truncheon and then, remarkably, untied Smith. Suspended from something in the ceiling, he fell, but the SS man caught him under the armpits and set him on the floor. He barked at the corporal.

“We have all but won the Beach, so you will get nothing from this man that is of any use. I prefer we stop beating, and keep his brains intact. Now – leave us!”

The two remained alone and silent in the chamber for some minutes. The SS Officer took out a cigarette and smoked it. He didn’t offer anything to Smith.

“Good cop, bad cop!” said Smith. His mouth was dry and parched, and he could barely rasp out the words. But he loaded them with as much contempt as he could.

The SS man chuckled grimly. “Or maybe Cat and Mouse! Come, come, you already know the games - why should I try to pull them on you?”

“What are you here for?”

Wegener put a finger to the side of his nose and looked up at the casement window.

John looked – or tried to – and listened. The German barking continued in the compound, and outside. Then, gunshots. He had picked up enough context to guess it had been a firing line. “Lili Marlene” came on the radio.

“Officers, and a few high-rank enlisted men that we captured. This batch…” Wegener sighed “…were all married men, it turns out.”

Smith looked sharply at the SS man, but the colonel seemed lost in his thoughts, absent-mindedly humming to the song. Then he got up abruptly to leave.

“Well! I shall see you again, with updates, I hope! It’s not just winning the Beach, you know, it’s gaining ground. And this country has so much _lebensraum_ to cover! But we shall do it. Unlike how you and the English failed in Normandy!”

Smug bastard! John wished his mouth had not been so dry. He’d have gladly taken an extra beating if he’d been able to spit on the man’s shiny boots.


	3. Tom Raeder

John had been moved from a basement cell to one with a window that overlooked a narrow dirt alley. The window let in some light, but the alley was seldom in use, though there were dark stains on the dirt itself. Then there was a high barbed-wired fence, and beyond that, impenetrable blackberry bushes backed with impenetrable pines.

With the move, he no longer had to shamble over to a drain in the floor, but had a bucket into which to relieve himself, and with it, the duty every morning to take the bucket into the courtyard and empty it into a trough and wash it out. John didn’t mind, however; this was the first exercise he was allowed. He reckoned that was the point – to start giving privileges to prisoners the Germans wanted to keep alive and useful.

A few other men had the same privilege. But under the sights of the German soldiers’ guns, speaking was discouraged.

Subversively, John tried to make eye contact, to smile, and even to say some morning greetings. But when his mouth opened some guard nudged him with the butt of his rifle or woofed out some Kraut words.

But one day, he made eye contact with an older prisoner. It was Tom Raeder, his workmate from Chicago, when they worked in the steel mill! The older man stood beside him at the trough and they spoke cautiously in whispers.

“Tom, good to see you! Are you ok?”

“I am, but wisht I could get out of here. I was Army Reserve, supposed to go to Virginia somewhere… how’d you land in this hell?”

“Same. Orders for Virginia Beach.”

Tom grinned. “News would be better if we were there, fighting ‘em. Like we fought the bosses in the old days!”

John smiled – and then he noticed a fresh cut on Raeder’s shoulder, still oozing. “You look like you’re still fighting…”

“Yeah. They keep… they keep asking me to give up, damn ‘em. That I’m too old; if I’d give ‘em the oath, I could get off reserve and go home, no questions asked. Just go home, be a good citizen. A Nazi citizen!”

The guards had been standing back. But seeing the two men’s heads together, they took a step toward them.

“But… Tom! The war isn’t over…

“No-o. But maybe it’s close…” Tom’s eyes looked misty. “I got a nephew, a godson, back in Iowa…”

John whispered more quietly now. “I know how it feels. I have a pregnant wife…”

Tom nodded.

“But I’m trying not to give up. For my honor. For my family.”

Tom gave a cracked smile. “Yes sirree….”

One of the guards barged in. No one could understand his harsh language but he grabbed Tom and moved him to a different part of the trough, while a different guard poked John hard enough with his rifle-butt that it would leave bruises.

But John felt cleansed and lighter as he carried his bucket back to his cell - not from the rinse-out, only. Good old Tom Raeder, his former comrade, had reaffirmed him in his struggle. He hoped he’d done the same for Tom.

A day or two passed. He heard soldiers passing in the hall, speaking in half-English, half-pidgin German, about questioning the prisoners and administering the oath. They would start with sergeants and staff sergeants, the men most of the troops followed. Then move on from there.

Good luck with that, thought John. He knew his men’s resolve.

A few nights later, yelling and a bright light woke John from his sleep. He looked outside, into the alley, where the commotion was coming from.

John knew they were being held contrary to normal rules of war - that the Nazis introduced new savagery to their incarceration. But even though he’d heard gunshots before in his first few days in camp, he was shocked at this midnight melee. Ordinary men, some of them nearly midlife, were being shuffled roughly into a file, near the fence, spotlights glaring…

As the men were forced into their places, John suddenly realized what the dark patches on the ground were.

The men moved their heads like newborn pups, whelping and blind. One older man turned his head in John’s direction. It was Raeder. John felt sick…

“I will count to ten!” said a thick Teutonic voice. “Slowly! Any man who wishes to save his life, step forward und take the oath. _Zehn!…. Neun!… Acht!…_”

“You can’t! You can’t do this you bastards!” thought John. But of course they could. There was no Code of Military Justice, no Geneva Convention…

The brute continued counting. “_Drei!... Zwei!...Eins!_”

He watched Tom crumple, and a high-pitch noise escaped John’s mouth. Then all went black.


	4. Orange Juice

Soon he was moved to yet a different cell. He had a cot with a mattress, a toilet, and a cracked sink. The camp had been quiet lately, absent of sounds of violence. The radio, was still on of course, playing the same old schtick.

He was isolated as ever from his fellow inmates. But in the new cellblock, he could hear them sometimes, milling about, like himself. Every week they were allowed a brief shower, and he or the other men were marched down the hall, naked but for a towel, so at least they could see each other.

He slept, recited poetry, and did math in his head. He thought of his high school science courses, and the wonders of the universe he’d learned there. Sometimes he sang songs in his head. He didn’t know what the other men did.

And of course, he thought about people. He tried not to… but the visions would come. The dead: Karen, his lost first love; Tom Raeder; Edmund. And the living (so he hoped): his mother; Helen; the baby on the way. Sometimes just shadowy figures that wouldn’t come clear. He tried to push the thoughts away… that way led madness.

He finally had enough water, after those first days of practically being dehydrated to death. And he was fed on something like a regular schedule. A morning meal and an evening meal, with a sort of snack in-between. Porridges, thin stews, coarse bread. Sometimes some boiled vegetables, usually cabbage. John hated it, but ate it, desperate to stave off scurvy. He was terrified of having a tooth coming out in the sawdusty bread.

One morning, his gruel came with a tiny glass of orange juice – and a visitor. John drank the juice slowly but greedily. Oh god, it was better, even, than the Christmas orange of his childhood!

Wegener watched Smith eat and drink. He himself had a small glass that he was drinking juice from, too.

“Interesting stuff,” said Wegener. “I’ve grown fond of it. From Florida, yes?” He handed his half-full glass to Smith.

John was hesitant, but he took it. “Yes. The _best_ oranges are from Florida.”

“Ah! Then lucky for us that the citrus groves in the north are under our control!”

John lapped up the rest of the orange juice and set his glass down. This was why not talking was best; to avoid giving your opponent the advantage. He thought about what the SS man had said.

“I notice that you left out Central and South…”

Wegener frowned. “The Everglades are problematic. They keep flooding somehow…”

John thought of the engineering; it sounded like the Floridians were destroying the dikes, like the Dutch had since time immemorial. He was proud of them.

“Our Swamps have been a refuge before!” His eyes glittered.

“A holdout, yes; I grant you! And I give you Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox. But not everything comes out alive from the swamps. As many slaves died in them when escaping as actually came out. And your Seminoles? Did the Everglades help the Seminoles when Jackson sent them on the Trail of Tears?”

John said nothing.

“I like you, Captain Smith. You are a man of great intelligence.”

John remained quiet.

“Yes, great intelligence – and firm spirit.” Wegener leaned in close; he smelled of cigarettes, orange juice, and bay rum. “These are good traits for the New Men. Men like you, who are needed for the Reich.”

“You really think I’ll go along with that?”

“You don’t want to. But I think you will.”

John spat. “Don’t waste your time.”

Wegener sighed. “Time is on my side, my dear Captain Smith. He took out a handkerchief and wiped off the spittle off. “In a few days, our victory at Virginia Beach will be announced, and footage of our Panzers marching into Washington will be played in every theater in the country, for compulsory viewing. “

He pulled back his lips, showing little vulpine teeth. “We will even have our own private showing here! And, after our little picture show, you and your fellow soldiers will be given a chance to take a brief and simple loyalty oath acknowledging your new Leader and your new Regime. _Then_ you will be restored to freedom - as citizens of the new American Reich.”

“Many of us would rather die!”

“And so they will, if they don’t take the oath. Dying for nothing!” Wegener paused for a long time; he almost seemed sad. “Blood on the cobblestones… blood on the dirt…”

John started when he said “blood on the dirt.” But he kept his silence. Wegener rubbed his eyes and temples for some time.

He went over to John again, and leaned close. “John Smith, Captain of the now-defunct US Army, do you know why I am telling you this? Do you really suppose everyone is privy to this sort of information?”

“Many of these fine men,” he continued, “all so ready to have died on the Beach, will be at a loss and not know what to do at the death of their old country. Fine men, with strength and brains…”

“And spirit.”

“Yes, and spirit,” Wegener conceded. He paused, reaching in his uniform, holding an inside pocket. “And wives,” he said softly, “and children.”

He took out a packet and laid it on John’s cot. John saw they were letters, in Helen’s handwriting. Opened. Of course they were opened.

Wegener went to the door to leave, then turned suddenly.

“I am sorry for the invasion of privacy. But! Your Helen is fine! Doing well, and so is your new baby boy. She named him already, but hopes you will approve! His name is Thomas.”


	5. A New Adjutant

A week had passed. Korporal John Smith, in an ordinary Wehrmacht uniform, sat waiting in Wegener’s anteroom. Most of his men, and most of his fellow officers, were in barracks, receiving their kit or polishing their new boots. A few had been shipped off to other installations after deciding not to take the oath. Smith knew neither he nor anyone else would see or hear from them again.

He was called in, and Wegener stood smiling jovially. “We are moving from here. There’s a new post – small, but important. It will be difficult duty at times, I’m afraid. But – it cannot be avoided.” He took out a map and unrolled it. “Camp Bormann, near Cincinnati.”

“Why… that’s – that was Fort Carl Schurz!” 

“You know it?”

“I was taught decoding there, and had several officer classes there. Early on.”

“Your wife’s family, the Van der Burghs, have a factory in Cincinnati. Were you able to see her on R&R?”

“I was there before we married. But I’m not surprised they have a factory there.”

“They have many factories.”

“Yes,” John said shortly. He remembered how surprised the Van der Burghs had been when one of theirs married a skilled worker rather than a doctor or lawyer. Had it not been for his officer status and “war wedding fever” he doubted they’d have allowed it.

Wegener continued speculating about them. “Like all industrialists, they have been in protective custody, until their loyalty is determined.” Seeing Smith’s face, he was reassuring. “Don’t be so glum, Korporal. We want the industrialists on our side. It’s more like royal arrest of old. Similar lodgings and comforts as what she’s used to.”

“Spare us your crocodile comforts of a palace. I’m just a modest machinist and a lowly Army Cap- Korporal. We have always planned a simple life.” John turned his head, fighting a sigh. Poor Helen! And then there was his new son. He hadn’t even seen his boy yet…

Wegener briefly turned up the corners of his mouth. “Well, Korporal, then it will please you to know that I have asked High Command to release Mrs. Smith and your young boy to *my* custody, in Cincinnati. It will be no luxurious palace, but a small house and yard – guarded in the perimeter, of course, but ‘normal’ in all other aspects. And you can have leave on weekends to see them. Provided… you will accept a new commission from me at Camp Bormann. It will be a difficult, sometimes gruesome, detail.”

John swallowed hard. The chance to actually see and be with my wife and son!... he thought.

“I am willing to accept, Colonel. I don’t mind hard manual labor…” he clamped his mouth hard. 

Wegener looked a gimlet eye at Smith. “I am not putting you to working with me to clean latrines and dig graves. Go… look in that wardrobe,” he said, pointing to an armoire.

Smith did as ordered. He saw a different hat, boots, and uniform for himself – not grey. SS – full black.

Wegener came over and laid a large, warm hand on Smith’s shoulder. “Cleaning and digging and wasteful for a man of your talent and intelligence. And your integrity and loyalty. You will be my adjutant.”

John’s eyes flickered with curiosity. This was interesting lip service to values, coming from such a source.

Wegener had caught his expression. “Yes, you flinch at a Nazi saying such words – it is so clearly written on your face. John, don’t be so naïve! There are Reich values that are common to all true men – country; community; service. You laugh, but you and I aren’t so different, John Smith. We both believe in the possibility of a better world. Come, I will teach you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The camp & its name is fictional. Carl Schurz was a German immigrant who was a statesman and journalist. He was anti-slavery and a liberal Republican.


End file.
